


details

by AngriestPotato



Series: arbitrary smut challenge [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17528072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngriestPotato/pseuds/AngriestPotato
Summary: Hanzo might not be very excited by your arranged wedding, but you allow yourself a little make believe.





	details

Your desire for Hanzo is a nebulous thing, shapeless and quicksilver, sometimes so difficult to put into words that you’re glad he doesn’t know about it. You don’t expect him too, either; your relationship is nonexistent for the most part, you’re simply a political asset he’s supposed to marry in order to please his family.

It doesn’t hurt you, though. If you had to verbalize it you think you’re the one taking more advantage of this deal, as far as attraction goes at least. And it’s not out of humility or self consciousness on your part, it’s just very clear that you’re both taking rather different approaches to dealing with this administrative decision from the Shimada. Hanzo seems perfectly content with ignoring you at the moment and, you suspect, marriage wouldn’t change that; which in turn gives you the liberty to construct your own husband in the private confines of your mind.

You borrow building blocks, of course; you lie in this room that overlooks the sprawl of Hanamura, a castle away from him, and you stitch together your favorite parts. His well trimmed beard ghosts over your cheeks, traces your jaw –your fingertips feel far too soft to approximate the feeling of it, so you have to use the barest hint of nails–, tickles the dip of your collarbones, and his laughter –the one you happened to catch one night as you left the room, clearly not directed at you, never at you– echoes against the high ceilings of this fantasy.

You laugh too, breathless, and spread your legs; this should be enough to hold him, that narrow waist. His palms –calloused, you suppose, from archery– stripped from their gloves, are warm and just the slightest bit dusted with talc, to keep the black leather in top condition, as they follow the outline of your hips.

When a moan threatens to escape, you bite your lip, pretend it’s him that does it; and here’s the part where you start to fabricate, the gesture is gentle before he straightens to look down at you. Your hand dips between your legs, barely there at first –you figure he’d be a tease from the glimpses of humor you’ve caught through the stoic exterior– as slight as his breath if he runs the sharps angles of his nose over the inside of your thighs. Your imagination usually doesn’t go much further than that when it comes to his mouth; even for this that’s too much intimacy, even this ideal version of Hanzo has to be believable.

You’d rather think about his cock, a much easier subject, already a glorified body part in porn and romance novels and “girl talk” among your older cousins; its importance already such a cultural construct that it makes no difference if the specifics are ever changing, driven by the whims of your moods. This particular night it’s girthy to the point of alarm because that image usually speeds up the process, building the orgasm that will finally let you sleep; the morning is early and promises a lot of parading around in heavy fabric so the Shimada elders can pick out a wedding kimono.

The steady circles you rub on your clit lose rhythm, your legs tense –you can let them fall over the bedding, no longer needing the pantomime of Hanzo between them– and the tension releases in a suspended second of nothingness.

You consider the soothing epilogue of a warm arm over your waist, the traditional tattoo stark against the light sheets, but decide against it. You have to be perfectly, distantly polite to your betrothed in less than six hours; tonight is not a night to pretend he could love you.


End file.
